Hair Dokterr Talibani

Lustrous curls, a prophet's beard;
From their thatch, he can tell you're weird.
'Anyone on the street could tell you're schizo',
And, after all, what am I but the over-paid
Stooge of popular prejudice?

I have been doing this job so long,
I can no longer hear a bird's song.
I merely inspect its plumage,
And then cover it in bondage.

In my old country, where fanaticism rages,
They all look a bit like you;
I have transcended those unlucky few.
Now when I look into a man's soul,
All I see is a disgusting, threatening outgrowth of bristles.

I am the hair Dokterr,
I am the hair-style Lord,

Fall into my ward,

And I'll make you as servile as my race,

Taking my razor to your heart,
Until its trim, neat, and fatal,
As a sickle-cell from the balmy South.